


Our Past, Our Present, Our Assumed Future

by circa1220bce



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Welcome to Night Vale Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 02:05:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2834198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circa1220bce/pseuds/circa1220bce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Carlos and Cecil Christmas story told in three parts.</p><p>A gift for thequeen117 for the Welcome to Night Vale Secret Santa</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cecil

**Author's Note:**

> I think I was only supposed to use one of the three prompts I got?? But I liked them all. So I combined them into one story!
> 
> Prompts:  
> 1\. "What’s in that bag and why are you hiding it here?"  
> 2\. Carlos and Cecil find a baby on Christmas Eve and spend the holidays looking for the family  
> 3\. Christmas morning chaos with the family

It is okay for a person to keep secrets from another person. 

Secrets can be necessary. They can be as easily a kindness as a cruelty. They are, oftentimes, municipally mandated. Secrets are intrinsic to the proper functioning of the entire world and all of its shifting continents and countries and dimensions. To a friendly desert community where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights pass overhead. To a relationship.

Cecil Gershwin Palmer knows this. Cecil knows this better than _anyone_.

So it is okay for a person to keep secrets from another person. Even if that person is Carlos, and even if the person he is keeping his secrets from is Cecil.

 _No_. No, _especially_ if that first person is Carlos, and especially if that second person is Cecil.

Their relationship would be no relationship at all if they were bared, skin to bone to soul, known utterly and utterly naked to one another. A relationship could not survive that knowledge. Could not sustain its weight. It would render a relationship moot. For what is a relationship if not that slow, consensual, and loving unravelling of each other's self?

What should a few secrets matter when Carlos – beloved, beautiful, perfectly imperfect Carlos – is back? Over a year gone and now a few days returned to Night Vale – to _Cecil_ – from that hated and far-away Other Desert World, and Cecil had missed him _so_. _Much_. 

From this side the separation, how strange to think it had only been a little over a year, when every day must have lasted that long at least. What a strange time it had been, full of anger and grief and loneliness – so much loneliness – tempered only when he drank enough to forget.

Sometimes, though, when he had been in his radio booth and pouring his voice into the microphone to blanket his beloved town, he had felt none of those things; he had felt only grateful.

Because while Night Vale may have many secrets, _what_ it is does not count among them. That both he and Carlos have lived as long as they have – have been given as much time together as they have – would be miraculous if things like miracles and angels existed. 

And it's not as if Carlos had _died_. Not as if Cecil had ever had cause to doubt Carlos's love. Cecil had never doubted that Carlos _wanted_ to be back, only whether fate would permit him to.

They'd spoken on the phone, less often than Cecil would've preferred but probably, on balance, no less often than they'd actually spoken day-to-day before; they each had lives that kept them busy, after all. 

Lives that continued even after the Old Oak Doors had closed – had existed before Carlos arrived and the Old Oak Doors have ever appeared or opened. Cecil had had a _good_ life. Full of bowling league games, Big Rico's pizza, intern orientations and intern memorial services, PTA meetings, brunches at Old Woman Josie's, scouting trips with Earl Harlan's troop, howling voids that attempted to consume everything in their path, his sister and his beautiful niece, and his radio station. His beloved Community Radio. His mouth at the microphone, headphones on his ears, a mug nearby – sometimes even filled with coffee if Cecil got to it before the cockroaches.

What wonderful consolation, really, that even after Carlos, Cecil still has that life.

But Night Vale without Carlos would never be preferable to Night Vale with him – especially when the latter is followed by the former. Cecil has known both states. He's positive that Carlos would agree that this must be a scientific fact.

Just because Cecil once again occupies a Night Vale _with_ Carlos, though, does not mean he'll never again know Night Vale without him. Just because Carlos is keeping something from Cecil doesn't mean that that something will necessarily indicate something that will take Carlos away.

Right?

Right, Cecil assures himself. Except...maybe he should ask his listeners during his broadcast later today. They can reassure him that Carlos is allowed to have secrets. And if it's a secret, then by definition Cecil couldn't know, really, whether it's actually cause for alarm – secrets _can_ be good.

Right?

His listeners can tell Cecil that Carlos is allowed to have a large burlap bag that Cecil has never before seen. A bag that looks heavy and large enough that it could be filled with – with just about anything, really. Cecil needs them to tell him that people are allowed to have mysterious burlap bags, even when they'd never before indicated any affinity towards them.

Carlos is allowed to have this bag, and of course he is allowed to store it in their home's Empty Closet, which is of course the closet that everyone agrees is empty no matter what. If anyone is gauche enough to point out the presence of something in the closet – say, evidence of an affair, or a surprise present, or various poisons, or houseguests that only some members of the residence agreed to host, or junk that you never use but that still has sentimental value and, really, you'll get rid of it, you promise – there's a standard procedure. You just make a big show of inspecting the inside and then you confidently say, “Nope! I don't see anything! There is nothing in this closet. _Nothing_. Not even dust. That is how empty this closet is.” Then you aggressively wink and nudge the person with your elbow until they agree.

The designated Empty Closet is an integral part of any household. Even the Sheriff’s Secret Police apologize profusely when they rifle through them during mandatory monthly inventories, and afterwards exclaim, “I don't know why I spent so long looking through a _completely empty_ closet! Silly me!”

His listeners would assure Cecil that _of course_ Carlos can use that closet, that's what that closet is _for_ , and Cecil would try to believe them, he would, except...Carlos has never before made use of an Empty Closet, not at his old apartment above his lab and not here at their townhouse.

A townhouse that has been theirs for almost two years, but that they've shared for less than one. 

Cecil is so scared to lose Carlos again – to a miniature invading army, to an Other Desert World, to merely the disinterest that can come with time and familiarity. Cecil had been perfectly comfortable with the world – with his place in it and his acceptably limited understanding of it – but then Strex Corp. came and took his boyfriend away and turned his town inside out and Night Vale _won_ , they did, but at the cost of knowledge no amount of alcohol will let Cecil forget. Cecil never used to think about change. Now he hates it. Hates the uncertainty it can foster. Hates its apparent inevitability.

Carlos is back, and Cecil can't help but see in everything a threat that might somehow take Carlos away again, and he can't handle it. Not so soon. He _can't_.

Down the hall, their bedroom door creaks open. Carlos calls a sleepy _Good morning_. It's late afternoon, if time can be trusted, which Carlos has assured him it cannot be, but Carlos is still adjusting to the time difference between here and the Other Desert World. Cecil freezes, caught inspecting the closet whose sole purpose is to _not_ be inspected.

Excuses and explanations line up on the tip of Cecil's tongue – he hadn't meant to _pry_ , he'd just wanted to store away the hard liquors around the townhouse before Carlos noticed and perhaps questioned the sheer quantity of them, and Cecil hadn't been expecting to see anything in the closet. _Not that there's anything in the closet_. And Cecil certainty hadn't meant to keep coming back to the closet and opening the door and staring at the bag long after he'd finished moving all the liquor bottles here! Cecil had just been curious.

No. Not curious. _Concerned_. 

But Carlos doesn't appear upset. He shuffles closer, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his fists, and when he's close enough, he wraps an arm around Cecil's waist and plants a wet, sleepy, lingering kiss on the back of Cecil's neck. He's warm from the bed, and his terrycloth lab coat is soft. He smells like bubbling chemicals and home.

Oh masters of us all, Cecil had missed him _so much_.

Carlos pulls away, muttering something about coffee and refractions and transverse waves.

It's just a _bag_. Someone needs to reassure Cecil that it is just as _bag_. Not Carlos. Carlos put it here for a reason, and Cecil won't violate that trust.

He won't.

“What’s in that bag and why are you hiding it here?” Cecil says, aiming for smooth nonchalance but likely hitting somewhere around high-pitched panic based on the way Carlos stumbles and turns around looking suddenly wide-awake. 

“What is what–? Oh.” Carlos has followed Cecil's flung-out arm to his shaking finger pointed accusingly at the burlap bag. “That's–” Carlos frowns. “I didn't put that there.” He blinks. “That's a _lot_ of Everclear and tequila,” he says.

“No, that isn't. Because there's _nothing in this closet_!” Cecil shouts. “That's the point!”

Carlos's mouth opens; it closes. He studies the closet with furrowed brow. Eventually he says, “I'm missing something.” 

“The _bag_ ,” Cecil says. “I know it's not there but what is it doing there? It _is_ yours, isn't it?”

Carlos shifts. Shifts _guiltily_. 

“And you don't want me to see what's in it,” Cecil continues, as evenly as can, which under the circumstances is not evenly at all.

“How did you–? I, that is, no I didn't. I–” Carlos scratches the back of his neck. He looks confused. He looks miserable. What is wrong with Cecil? Seconds ago Carlos had looked sleepy and _happy_. “I didn't put it here. I don’t know how it got here. I'd put it in the basement behind the garden gnomes we had to box up after they gained sentience and turned feral.” 

“Well of course the house would've moved it here for you. You can't go explicitly hiding things and then expect the house to do nothing! Why do you think we even have this _totally empty_ closet?” Cecil winks and nudges Carlos with his elbow, but his heart isn't in it.

“But it's not – oh!” Carlos's eyes light, and he rocks back once on his heels as if struck by his abrupt switch from miserable to unbearably curious. Carlos taps his chin rapidly with his fingers, he beautiful mind clearly working at speeds Cecil couldn't possibly comprehend, and when he opens his mouth he asks ten questions in the space of a breath. 

If that ever fails to charm Cecil utterly, it will be because the howling void has consumed him and he hasn't the capacity to _be_ charmed. 

There's nothing for it but for Cecil to answer as many of Carlos's questions as he can, which for the more technical questions isn't many at all. But Carlos has dug a notepad and a crayon from an inner pocket of his terrycloth lab coat and is scribbling away, so Cecil is confident that Carlos will soon enough be explaining these closets to _him_. And Cecil will only understand one word out of five, and it's won't matter at all. 

That's the point. Not the bag. The bag isn't the point.

Cecil leans over and kisses Carlos's nose. “I'm so happy you're back,” Cecil says, meaning it as much as the other hundred times he's said it over the past few days.

Carlos's hand pauses in its frantic scribbling and he blinks up at Cecil. He glances between the closet and Cecil. Carlos's brow furrows as he thinks, which is what Carlos has assured Cecil scientists do best. Cecil loves him _so much_.

“I miscalculated,” Carlos says finally, pocketing his notepad and crayon.. “I'm so sorry, Cecil.” He takes Cecil's hand and squeezes. “I didn't give proper weight to all of the variables. I didn't want to upset you. So I didn't tell you about what I had in this bag. But not knowing is upsetting you even more, which was completely counter to my intentions.” He gestures to the bag and offers, “Look if you want to. Just don't – don't be upset, okay?” His eyes flick to the stacks of liquor. 

Things end up in this closet for a reason. Cecil oughtn't look, but he does. He carefully takes the bag, which is as heavy as it had looked, and peers inside.

He sees: rocks, and polished stones, and labeled jars containing odd insects and strange plants and many different colors and types of sand and dirt.

“I was going to tell you eventually,” Carlos says.

The bag is heavy, so Cecil sinks down to sit on their soft, argyle carpet. He takes an item, inspects it, and then places it beside him, one by one – a spiky plant that lolls its tongues at him, a glittering rock that crackles with static, a jar of orange sand that vibrates. 

“It's all from the Other Desert World,” Carlos explains, as if Cecil had not immediately known. “Whatever I was able to carry. And a few gifts from the masked warriors. I thought the reminder would upset you, which is the _last_ thing I want, but everything was _so_ scientifically intriguing, and I knew I'd never return, and I couldn't just – just leave it. One day I hope to study these items and learn everything I can. But not for a long time, okay? I promise.”

Cecil doesn't answer but keeps sorting through the items. The last item is also by far the largest – a spherical stone, dull grey in color and almost the size of his head. Cecil picks this up, too, and then yelps, almost dropping it, when the stone hums and turns a smokey violet. 

“Careful!” Carlos says, quickly kneeling beside him and steadying the stone in Cecil's hands – but at Carlos's touch the hum grows louder and the violet turns a deeper shade. They both hold their breath, watching. 

The stone hums and hums and the colors swirl and swirl and then – nothing. The colors fade away and the stone falls silent.

Carlos practically vibrates with his desperation to study and understand. But all he does is take a deep breath and give Cecil a tight smile and start returning the items to the bag. When the bag is filled, he rises and turns towards the empty closet. Cecil rises too and stops him with a hand on his arm. “Take it with you to the lab,” Cecil says. “Study it. I don't mind.”

Carlos shakes his head. “It's _okay_ , Cecil. You don't have to–”

“I want to know why the stone did that. Well – no. I don't. But _you_ do and I want you to find out everything that you want to find out. And then I want to hear about it,” Cecil says, as firmly as he can. Then, more softy, “I would happily do a _month_ of broadcasts on the Other Desert World and not mind one bit as long as I knew you were _here_ , listening, and not there.”

The bag _thunks_ when it hits the carpet.

Carlos takes Cecil's face in both his hands and pulls Cecil into a delightfully thorough kiss. Cecil grabs fistfuls of terrycloth lab coat and closes the inch of space that remains between them.

“I love you, you know that, right?” Carlos says, in between long, wonderful kisses. “And I missed you, too. Every day.”

“I know,” Cecil says. “But you're back now, and that's what matters. So go do science, okay?”

Carlos smiles that blinding, brilliant smile that Cecil fell in love with at first sight. “Let's get breakfast first,” Carlos says. “How about the Moonlite All-Nite Diner?”

“It's nearly evening,” Cecil points out.

“Scientifically speaking, time doesn't exist,” Carlos says. He kisses Cecil again before adding, “And breakfast is whatever meal breaks your fast. Break fast with me?”

“I'd love to,” Cecil says. But...as there can't be a rush if time doesn't exist, first he hooks his fingers into the pockets of Carlos's coat and steers them back to their bedroom, Carlos enthusiastically allowing himself to be steered.

They never do get around to breakfast.

Later – much, much later – Carlos leaves for his lab. It's the middle of the night, and Cecil can barely keep his eyes open; he is only still awake because Carlos is. Carlos gives him a kiss good-bye and leaves, the burlap bag swung over his shoulder.

Cecil is glad to see it out of their house.

He _hates_ that bag. He _hates it_. Not because its contents remind him specifically of the Other Desert World – well, okay, yes because of that. But more importantly because they are reminders that the greatest threat to his relationship with Carlos is also what he loves most about Carlos. His _passion_. A passion that could take him away, and how willingly Carlos would go.

Carlos is _so_ smart. He learns _so_ quickly. What if Night Vale doesn't have a lifetime's worth of science to work on? And how could Cecil _deny_ Carlos from doing what he loves? It may not always be enough for Cecil that Carlos always comes home if Carlo's absences will stretch for so achingly long. Cecil never used to worry about what-if's – about the _future_. Cecil never used to dwell on _loss_ , because he'd known that once he started down that path there would be no turning back, and...

Well.

Cecil hadn't been wrong, had he?

He should _definitely_ broadcast this. He won't, but he wants to. His listeners will call in and tell him that that is the _future_. That that is _so_ far from now. They will shake their heads – metaphorically, since they would be speaking on the phone – and remind Cecil that he and Carlos could both be consumed by the howling void long before any of that ever became an issue. That it is good practice to make the most of _every_ day and _every_ moment and to enjoy each as if it will be the last.

For now, Carlos is home and he is happy, they would say. And Cecil would be reminded how happy for both of those facts he is. Cecil would know that if he worries, well, Carlos does not need to know that. 

His listeners would tell Cecil: It is okay for a person to keep secrets from another person.


	2. Carlos

(A scientist is always observant.

They must be. They must collect and preserve all data points, always, consciously or unconsciously, regardless of current perceived relevance because future actual relevance cannot be anticipated with any precision.)

A _crack_ , followed swiftly by a shrill cry–

Carlos startles awake – overbalances on his wheeled lab chair and tumbles to the floor, his glasses crooked on his nose and a piece of paper stuck to his face with drool. Carlos peels off the paper and wipes his chin – he needs to shave. The paper is – oh, yes, of course, the spreadsheet figures he'd been studying...

Had that been today?

Carlos glances at his watch, which is less helpful for time-telling than one might hope, and then glances out the lab window, which is sufficient if only marginally more useful.

No, not today. The figures he'd been studying _yesterday_. Carlos reaches into his red-and-green striped lab coat and pulls out his phone – three missed calls from Cecil.

He types out a quick text – _Sorry!! Fell asleep at the lab!! Heading home soon. See you tonight. Love you xoxoxoxo_. He adds an excessive series of emoticons – they make Cecil smile – and has just hit send when there's another shrill cry, and Carlos realizes the noise hadn't originated in some dream but _in the lab_. He scrambles to his feet and looks around.

“Hello?” he calls. He doesn't immediately see anyone else in the lab. There _shouldn't_ be anyone else in the lab. If Carlos had slept here through the night then it is the day before Christmas, and he'd told the team to take the holiday off.

Only about half of the scientists observe Christmas, but it is a major holiday and they are in Night Vale. Carlos had made it standard procedure to send everyone to the safety of their homes during any major holiday; it keeps the mortality rate among his scientists low. 

Carlos shouldn't be here, either. He'd planned on taking a few of his ongoing projects home the night before and working on them from the townhouse. Then, in the late afternoon when Cecil returned from the radio station, they'd do whatever Christmas Eve activities Cecil had planned for them.

His phone buzzes – a text. It's from Cecil. The message is just a half dozen large, pink hearts. Cecil keeps his messages short when he's at work; Station Management apparently has begun expressing disapproval of extended text conversations.

Carlos had wanted to ask for elaboration. Carlos is _so_ curious about who – or what – Station Management is. But Cecil has begged Carlos to not so much as register curiosity towards Station Management, let alone attempt any sort of study. And Cecil had looked so terrified at the mere thought that Carlos couldn't do anything but promise to leave Station Management alone.

But he's _so_ curious.

Simple as Cecil's message is, though, it makes Carlos smile. He puts his phone aside and returns to his search.

Finding the source of a single sound in the lab is not as straightforward as it might seem. The lab is large with several floors and several rooms, each filled bottom to top with scientific tools and computers and humming electrical equipment, and when the scientists forget to do the necessary chants the lab is often larger as the floors and rooms multiply, its layout upside down or backwards.

Another cry, closer this time. Carlos opens another door and finds–

A baby.

A naked baby boy, able to sit up without support and grasp objects and focus on objects far away – six months old at least. Twelve months old at the most. Biology is far from Carlos's speciality, but experience has made him fairly knowledgeable about the development of children.

The baby is sitting on a lab table, surrounded by scattered papers, some of which appear chewed, and various specimens, some of which appear broken, and Carlos's laptop, its screen blinking blue.

The baby appears covered in – something. Something thick and purple. The substance is also covering some of the specimens. Carlos has never seen that substance before, which isn't unprecedented; he does not always know what each member of his team is working on at any given moment.

What _is_ unprecedented is for an unknown substance to not be properly contained and labeled. Is the substance harmless? It had better be harmless, or he will be subjecting his entire team to a lecture about proper containment. There will be _slides_. It will be _long_ and _boring_ and _thorough_. 

One of the baby's hands smacks against the laptop keyboard. The laptop makes a sad, high-pitched whine and its screen pixelates. 

Carlos is frozen in the doorway, uncertain.

He is the middle child in a large family. Between his younger siblings and his cousins and his nieces and nephews, little kids making a mess of his science is old hat. Carlos used to hide pacifiers and teething rings and little toys around his workspaces to distract any kids that might otherwise distract themselves with Carlos's very delicate experiments. 

Carlos likes children. Carlos is _good_ with children. But no one ever made the mistake of leaving Carlos _in charge_ of a child. 

Carlos barely remembers to feed and bathe _himself_. 

The baby focuses on Carlos and holds out chubby arms and begins to excitedly babble at him. 

“Hello?” Carlos calls again. He's positive that he hasn't seen or heard anyone else in the lab. He passes by the baby to the nearest window and tries hissing a question out to the Sheriff’s Secret Police officer assigned to the lab, but no one answers.

The baby must belong to one of the scientists, but which one? People details always have had a way of escaping him. Some of his scientists must have babies – if nothing else, statistically it stands to reason – but Carlos can't possibly extrapolate individual facts from nothing but population data. 

Even if Carlos could come up with a subset of his scientists who might reasonably have a child, he couldn't imagine any member of his team being careless enough to not only bring a baby to the lab but then _leave_ the baby here. 

Though it is a major holiday. Carlo's danger meter always reads bright, blinking red during major holidays. Carelessness may not be the culprit. 

Carlos's indecision is broken when the baby starts to eat the mysterious purple substance off of his fingers.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Carlos says, hurriedly snapping on a pair of gloves from his lab coat pocket, scooping up the baby, and running to a washing station. The baby looks astonished to no longer be on the table. Before turning on the faucet, Carlos quickly takes a swab of the purple substance and sets it aside for later testing. He'll have to sweep the entire lab for evidence of the substance and then set about arranging proper containment, but his first priority is to clean the baby as best he can. 

While Carlos scrubs, the baby reaches into his nearest coat pocket and pulls out a crayon and then immediately sticks the crayon into his mouth.

“No,” Carlos says, confiscating the crayon and tossing it aside. The baby stares at Carlos and then squirms in Carlos's arms to reach another pocket. “No,” Carlos says again when the baby next attempts to gum on a notepad, and then a test tube, and then Carlos's phone, and then Carlos's wallet.

When the baby is scrubbed clean of the substance, Carlos wraps him up in a spare lab coat – after ensuring that the coat's pockets are completely empty. The baby has become increasingly cross with each item Carlos confiscates, but Carlos can't think of a single item in this huge lab that he would consider baby-appropriate. He settles on holding the baby and letting the baby gum at one of his fingers. 

This lab is not equipped for babies. _Carlos_ is not equipped for babies. 

Why in the great unknown universe is there an unaccompanied baby in his lab?

Carlos needs to sort this baby out as soon as possible. It's Christmas Eve and – _Oh._ Oh, of course! “It's Christmas Eve,” Carlos tells the baby, who appears unimpressed with Carlos's epiphany.

Could it be that simple an explanation?

(A scientist is always observant.

Especially in Night Vale. Night Vale has a way of expanding the parameters of reality exponentially in all directions. Data cannot be taken at face value. The laws of time and space as understood outside of Night Vale cannot be assumed within it. 

One day a scientist will find and understand the theorems that connect what is not-Night-Vale with what is-Night-Vale, a bridge reconciling all of what science thought it knew with all of what science had not known it had not known.)

Over the past several months, most of Carlos's life has settled back to pre-Other Desert World routine, for which Carlos is very thankful. He loves this scientifically fascinating town. He loves, in particular, this town's Voice. He hadn't meant to be away for so long.

He hadn't meant to love that _other_ scientifically fascinating town quite so much.

Since Carlos's return, however, one aspect of his life with Cecil _has_ changed: Cecil has become big on traditions. _Really_ big. Every tradition and every holiday, modern or archaic, even the ones neither of them technically celebrate or had ever before celebrated – even the ones Carlos suspects Cecil has just invented and the entire town had gone along with because if Cecil talks about it on the radio it must be true.

On Easter Sunday they'd performed dark rituals in a dark cave as outside mushrooms blossomed in the roads and atop the buildings, and during Lent they'd huddled in endless, existential dread as the hooded figures roamed the streets. For Arbor day they'd gathered at the edges of the Whispering Forest and showered the trees with compliments, which was only fair, Cecil had explained – and most of those gathered had even managed to escape without becoming one with the forest.

There'd been the kidnappings for Mother's Day and Father's Day and worship services for the BROWNSTONE SPIRE for fifth Tuesdays and the burning of effigies for Ash Wednesday. They'd worn only solid colors if it rained hail on the Sabbath and for April Fool's Day they'd – well. They've agreed never to speak about April Fool's Day. Not ever. April Fool's Day had not happened, they've agreed.

The equinoxes have been Carlos's favorite so far – Cecil had explained that the _true_ traditions are not particularly survivable, but an acceptable substitute is to spend all day in bed with a loved one; it is also acceptable to spend the day in the shower together with a loved one, or on the floor, against a counter...it's the _with a loved one_ part that's important, Cecil had said.

The holidays had rarely lined up with what Carlos would consider their appropriate calendar date, and in fact often came with greater frequency than Carlos would've expected, but time is only a relative construct of their collective experiences anyway. When he had nevertheless noted it to Cecil, Cecil had explained that City Council had long ago emancipated holidays from the constraints of the calendar. 

Even when the traditions had been terrifying and physically dangerous and often inexplicable, Carlos had not objected. After all, they gave Cecil joy – Cecil, who has given Carlos nothing but support, who loves him even when Carlos forgets about anything but the science in front of him, who is every thing Carlos had never dared to hope for in a partner. Cecil, who has easily forgiven Carlos for being away for so long.

After experiencing the full scope of weird a Night Vale tradition can unleash, it is not impossible that a Christmas Eve tradition could involve the appearance of an unidentified baby covered in an unidentified substance.

In fact, such a tradition would feel practically mundane.

Even so...

Carlos retrieves his finger from the baby – the baby looks utterly betrayed – and then grabs his phone from where he'd thrown it out of the baby's reach. He dials Cecil's number, puts the phone on speaker and places it on a counter, and returns his finger to the baby just as tears were beginning to gather in the baby's eyes. He hopes that the personal call won't get Cecil in trouble with Station Management. Carlos is _so_ curious about Station Management. No – he shakes his head. He'd promised he wouldn't think about it.

“Cecil, there's a baby in the lab,” Carlos says as soon as Cecil answers. “I found him on a lab table covered in a thick, unidentified purple substance.”

There's a pause, and then Cecil says, “Oh, my, _god_ , how festive! How _adorable_. Send me a snapchat!” 

Some of the tension in Carlos unwinds. “So you know where the baby is from and what the substance is?”

“Not a clue,” Cecil says cheerfully. “But it's very Christmas-appropriate, wouldn't you say?” Then he asks, “Are you and your scientists cloning babies for the holidays? The City Council will be _very_ interested in your research. The mortality rate of their Mute Messenger Children is dreadfully high. And with the recent budget cuts....oh! I bet I can squeeze in a segment on it! I haven't finalized the schedule yet. Tell me everything!”

“No...what? No, Cecil, we're not cloning babies,” Carlos stammers.

“Oh. Then–” Cecil gasps. “Is your family in town? I bet your family has the _cutest_ babies. Oh, I can't wait to meet them! Does the baby look like you? You must've been the most _darling_ baby, Carlos.”

Carlos looks at the baby, who is still happily gumming on his finger, momentarily worried for a reason he cannot explain. He doesn't see any resemblance between himself and the baby. He...doesn't think so. 

“My family is not in town that I'm aware of,” Carlos says. “Cecil...I don't even know how to phrase this question.”

“You can ask me anything, dear Carlos,” Cecil says. “And as long as the answer is not municipally forbidden from disclosure, if I have the answer then I will happily give it.”

“To be absolutely clear,” Carlos says, slowly and clearly, “This isn't a common occurrence this time of year? The unexpected appearance of a mysterious baby covered in an equally mysterious purple substance has nothing to do with Christmas Eve festivities in Night Vale?”

“Oh _no_ ,” Cecil says, sounding crestfallen. “Are you used to celebrating Christmas Eve with mysterious babies covered in mysterious substances? Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't know. I haven't planned for that _at all_.”

“I don't celebrate any holiday with mysterious babies covered in mysterious substances,” Carlos is quick to reassure him. “Whatever you had planned will be wonderful.”

“Oh,” Cecil says. And then quieter, “Oh, Carlos, is the baby lost? And on Christmas Eve? Oh dear. Oh my. This is a _dangerous_ time for anyone to be lost.”

A hint of ominousness has crept into Cecil's voice. Carlos shivers despite himself. The baby gurgles. “Has anyone called in regarding either a missing baby or the appearance of one?”

“No,” Cecil says. Then brighter, any hint of ominousness gone, “I'll do a segment on this instead! Ask anyone to call in if they're missing one.”

“Station Management won't mind?”

“It'll be a quick segment,” Cecil says. His tone is too airy. Carlos is not reassured, but a broadcast _is_ a good idea. “So,” Cecil says, “we have a baby, we have a purple substance. What does the baby look like? Can you describe him?”

Carlos looks at the baby in his arms. The baby, as Carlos had noted, does not resemblance himself. Carlos is almost positive he doesn't. The baby isn't large for a baby or small. Isn't fat or thin. And though obviously the baby's appearance must have other noteworthy features, Carlos can't note a single one of them. 

(A scientist is always observant.

A scientist is always curious. A scientist is always questioning. A scientist is always persistent. A scientists is always – above anything else – whatever science requires them to be.)

“He looks like a baby,” Carlos is forced to conclude.

“Got it,” Cecil says. “I'll swing by the lab after work and we'll get this all figured out.”

“I'll be listening,” Carlos says. They exchange good-byes and hang up.

Carlos stares at the baby. The baby wiggles and babbles and wets the lab coat he's wrapped in.

Back to the washing station. Carlos cleans the baby and wraps him in a fresh lab coat. Then he changes into a clean lab coat himself, this one covered with a network of little Christmas trees. 

He finds a large, empty, and relatively clean specimen tank that should be suitable for a temporary crib and lines it with even more lab coats and sets the baby down. He starts an analysis running of the mysterious purple substance, but it could be hours before he gets any useful results. 

The radio in the corner flicks on. Carlos knows without checking that _all_ the radios in the lab – and there are anywhere from five to eleven depending on the lab's current blueprint – will have flicked on. Knows that the radios all over town will have flicked on.

If the baby's family is in Night Vale, they will hear the broadcast.

 _Yuletide greetings, listeners_ , Cecil says in his smooth, sonorous radio voice. Carlos lets Cecil's voice wash over him as he grabs his laptop and tries to fix whatever damage the baby had done. Then he searches but fails to find evidence of the purple substance anywhere in the lab except for that one table, but he'll leave proper containment until after he has test results and so has a better idea of what he's dealing with. He glances at a few figures he'd been looking at, and starts a few experiments, it'll just take a few minutes and then he'll check on the baby–

“Oh. My. _God_!” Cecil exclaims. Carlos startles and when he sits up his back pops in a dozen places and his neck aches. Carlos glances at his watch – unhelpful – and then out the window – marginally more helpful.

It's been more than a few minutes.

Cecil sweeps past Carlos and heads immediately for the baby and lifts the baby up, hands under the baby's little armpits. “Aren't you the cutest little thing _ever_!” The baby babbles excitedly at Cecil, flailing his arms and then shrieking in delight when Cecil blows a raspberry on his belly. Cecil has a large machete strapped to his belt, but thankfully the baby is too distracted to reach for it. “He's wearing a _lab coat_ , that is _too cute_ ,” Cecil says.

“The lab isn't equipped with baby supplies,” Carlos explains, a little embarrassed. 

But Cecil only grins, holding the baby confidently, and shrugs one shoulder to indicate the messenger bag he carries. “I brought,” he says. He is indeed well-equipped. He wraps the baby in a proper diaper and feeds the baby and Carlos just watches him, something wistful coiling inside him at the ease with which Cecil works.

“Poor lost little guy,” Cecil says to the baby, rocking him and tickling his feet sand cooing at him in what Carlos believes in Modified Sumerian. “Are you sure he isn't family? He looks _just_ like you, Carlos.”

“I'm positive that this baby is not, to my knowledge, in any way related to me. I'm also positive that none of my relatives indicated any intention of visiting, and that if any relative had decided to visit unannounced – providing that they proved capable of finding Night Vale – they would not have left a baby unattended,” Carlos says. Then, “You have experience caring for children.”

“Parenting survival badge for infants and kids up to age twelve when I was in the scouts,” Cecil says with a proud smile and a modest shrug. “I left the scouts before I could get any of the higher badges.” He frowns, his rocking of the baby slowing. “I never remember _why_ I quit. I'd loved the scouts.” He rubs his nose against the baby's nose; the baby squeals. “I love kids,” he says.

So does Carlos. Kids are curious. They ask questions and want answers and never run out of the former or are satisfied by the latter. He suddenly misses his family in a way he hasn't in a long time – misses the large full house he'd grown up in. But everyone is scattered now – across the country, across the _globe_ , with families of their own, and Carlos can't remember the last time they'd all gathered together.

Carlos isn't the exception, is he? He's gone far from home, too. He'd briefly gone so far away he'd been in a different _dimension_. And he has his own now family with Cecil.

“I got a lot of callers on the missing baby segment,” Cecil says, taking out his notebook from his pocket and waving it. It's the one that's filled with comprehensive notes through Carlos has never actually seen Cecil write in it. 

Carlos had asked to study the notebook over a year ago, and Cecil had gladly acquiesced – “Anything for science, my dear Carlos.” Carlos had run every test he could think of and nothing showed it to be anything but a standard notepad. Carlos has since designed numerous tests, but they all require equipment more sophisticated than he has and too expensive to acquire. One day he'll find a way to run those tests, and then he'll understand the notebook.

“What did you find out?” he asks. 

“No one noted the _appearance_ of a baby,” Cecil says, handing Carlos his notebook. “But several people said they were missing one. Now, some of them misunderstood and thought we were _offering_ a baby. I told them we would keep them in mind if the baby's family couldn't be found.”

Carlos flips through the notes as Cecil talks.

“I think three calls that were just static were hooded figures, who are _always_ after babies for ambiguous reasons, so they should probably be our last resort. And former mayor Pamela Winchell is still searching for an heir apparent – an heir to _what_ remains uncertain – and liked the sound of a baby who's survived on his own this long. Erika and Erika had just wanted to see the baby but weren't actually looking for one. Marcus Vanston offered to pay a significant amount of money for the baby, but I told him 'We both know City Council reinstated the ban on baby trading five years ago.' Then he wanted to know what to do with all the cages he'd just bought and I told him that that was _his_ problem, you know?

“Personally, while either of them had my vote for mayor, I don't think I'd trust the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home or Hiram McDaniels with a human child. _Steve_ called and, ugh, I don't even want to get into what utter nonsense he was wasting my time with. And two of your scientists called, but they were just curious about the purple substance. Which leaves us with...”

“No promising leads,” Carlos finishes, reaching the last page of Cecil's notes. Carlos sighs, frowns, tries to think.

(A scientist is always observant.

Sometimes a scientist is _too_ observant. They must see the trees to see the forest, but they cannot help but see also the animals and the leaves and the wind and the sky. They search, at any given time, for one theory. They do not control how many theories find them.)

Except Carlos hasn't any ideas, and Cecil hasn't any ideas, and they can't just _leave_ the baby to deal with later.

The baby starts to wail, once again breaking Carlos's indecision.

They all end up sitting on the floor, Carlos reciting scientific theorems in a soothing voice while Cecil makes funny faces – few of which Carlos believes are anatomically possible – until the baby is giggling and happy, curled in the crook of Cecil's arm.

“I'm sorry the broadcast didn't work,” Cecil says.

But Carlos shakes his head. “A broadcast was a perfectly sound idea. It was by far the most efficient and potentially effective means of reaching the most number of people,” he says. “I'm sorry too, though, Cecil. I know you'd had other plans for us this evening.”

“Oh, nothing fancy,” Cecil says. He indicates the machete at his belt. “I thought we'd go hunting for a Christmas tree and some holly. It's been _ages_ since I've done anything that traditional. I mean, the taxidermied ones you get are the stores are _okay_ , they do the job, but it's just not the same as a fresh kill on Christmas Eve, you know? Besides...” Cecil is very focused on the baby. Not looking at Carlos. “There's always next year, right?”

“The future is always assumed and so is not real until it becomes the observable present, but insofar as past data can indicate future trends, then yes, at some point next year there will be one or more Christmas Eves,” Carlos says, but he's distracted. Carlos looks at Cecil. He looks at the baby. 

As the data points begin to light up and align in his mind, he struggles to think of how to convey to Cecil the sudden theory he's beginning to form. He ends up talking about – sets. About the theory of sets, an abstract collection of objects which are called elements or members, grouped together according to well-defined membership criteria. About how all of mathematics is built atop this basic principle. How simple it is, how elegant, how crucial. About how elements can be physical objects, numbers, signs...people. About how, scientifically speaking, Carlos is an element of many sets – grouped with his family, with his scientists, with this town...with Cecil. And how set parameters can change, can overlap...can expand. Carlos speaks until what he has just realized and what he has been attempting to convey tumbles out of his mouth: “What I am trying to say – scientifically – is that I, I want a child. With you. We should adopt.”

Cecil's expression flicks from elation to wariness to a blank canvass so quickly Carlos is not certain he'd actually seen the first two. A hesitation, one that Carlos cannot read at all. “Not if–” Cecil finally says.

But the rest of his response is cut off by a loud, repeated _buzz_.

Cecil's response is subtle but immediate: he curls the baby just a hint closer to his body, he leans perhaps an inch over to place his body firmly in between Carlos and direction from which the sound came, and he moves his free hand to rest lightly on the machete at his belt.

“I was running a test on the mysterious purple substance. That noise just indicated that the test is complete. I don't know how long the baby was exposed to the substance; I wanted to determine whether there was cause for alarm,” Carlos explains, because explanations of science are incalculably easier than attempting to explain what had just happened between him and Cecil. 

“Are you certain?” Cecil eyes the ceiling warily. “It sounded like a mistletoe. They're such pests this time of year. City Council tries to keep the population down, but with budget cuts there's only so much they can do.”

Oh, Carlos has been wanting to study a Night Vale mistletoe since he'd seen a photo of one in the first Christmas card Cecil had ever gotten him. He should be ecstatic at the possibility there is one here now to study. Except Carlos doesn’t feel that way at all. 

What had Cecil been about to say?

“I'll check around,” Cecil says, and he jumps up and pulls a can of mistletoe repellant from his bag and doesn't look at Carlos when he leaves the room. While Cecil searches through the lab, Carlos goes to the machine to see that it had, in fact, been the source of the noise.

Carlos skims the results.

And then he reads them again, this time very, _very_ closely.

Then he returns to the lab table on which he'd found the baby and examines precisely which of the specimens on the table are covered in the mysterious purple substance.

Carlos reads the results again. He looks at the specimens again. Or, rather, specimen. Because only one specimen is covered in the substance, although it is broken in several pieces. Pieces that indicate that the specimen had not been solid grey stone. Inside, there had been a mysterious purple substance. And plenty of room for something else, too.

The Other Desert World stone had reacted at Cecil's touch, all those months ago. And again at Carlos's. It has not reacted, not once, to anyone's touch since. 

Most of the Other Desert World specimens Carlos had collected himself. Not the large grey stone. That had been a gift from the giant masked warriors Doug and Alicia. Carlos had spent a _lot_ of time talking to them about Cecil.

He'll need to run a DNA test, of course, to be absolutely certain. But all of the evidence thus far points in one clear direction.

Wonder fills Carlos. A giddy glee.

Hasn't he always said that existence is the most amazing thing of all?

“Cecil, I know where the baby is from!” he shouts as soon as he finds his boyfriend. He waves the printed results and a piece of the purple-substance-covered stone at Cecil, who blinks at him and smiles with interest.

Genuine interest – in _Carlos_. In what Carlos _knows_ and _does_. That expression on Cecil's face can still make Carlos's breath catch.

“I know why I couldn't identify the mysterious purple substance, and why the baby is here _now_ – that it's Christmas Eve is jut a coincidence – and I know why no one else in Night Vale seems to know anything about him. The large grey Other Desert World stone was an _incubator_. The baby is from the Other Desert World!” Carlos announces, triumphant. 

Before he can launch into an even more excited and detailed explanation, Cecil says, “ _No_.” Not loud or angry, but soft and cold. Said with such finality that Carlos falters. He glances again at the results and the stone piece in his hand, wondering if Cecil sees something he'd missed.

Or, worse, if he sees exactly what Carlos sees, and his answer – to this, to the question Carlos had posed before – is unequivocally _no_. 

“No!” Cecil says, louder this time. The baby, still in Cecil's arms, looks at him with wide eyes and babbles. 

“Based on the evidence, I really think–”

“Please, Carlos, I know you must feel awful about stealing an egg–”

“But I didn't steal the egg. The egg was a _gift_ , only I hadn't recognized it as one, likely because Doug and Alicia hadn't realized I would require an explanation to understand. There had been a lot of cultural misunderstandings between us. But this, Cecil – Cecil, listen!” And Carlos explains while Cecil listens, eyes growing huge. Carlos can only explain his understanding of the _what_. He is almost delirious thinking about getting to discover the science behind the _how_. 

“Oh,” Cecil says when Carlos has finished. “So – this doesn't mean you're going back to the Other Desert World?”

Carlos frowns. “Why would this mean that? The baby is _ours_. He belongs here. With us.”

“Oh,” Cecil says. Then, “ _Oh_ , oh _Carlos_.” Cecil lights up. He kisses the baby's head and then kisses Carlos thoroughly, and Carlos kisses back and he loves Cecil _so much_ and–

He pulls back. “Cecil, you do want this? With me? Before, you had been about to say something–”

“Nothing of any importance,” Cecil says. 

Even so, an uneasy feeling nags at Carlos over the next few days as they set about making a place for the baby in their lives and their home. They are good days – they turn a spare room into a nursery, and introduce the baby around, and Cecil gushes about the baby on the radio, and Carlos does tests on the purple substance that yield scientifically fascinating results and he and his scientists begin to come up with amazing theories, and...

Carlos has overlooked something, hasn't he?

People details always have had a way of escaping him. 

(A scientist is always observant.

Even if they do not always immediately understand what they've observed.)


	3. Night Vale

Christmas Day rolls around about three months later, towards the end of March. Everyone in Night Vale had gotten a bit lax waiting for it. After all, there are only so many consecutive days they could awake on high alert only to plod through an uneventful day before they no longer woke with that anticipation and fear.

But there had been no question this morning – every calendar had had this particular day circled, with the word “XMAS” written in bold print and circled in a bold marker. 

No one had quite been prepared, and there is an immediate rush.

City Council hurriedly cancel all of their meetings for the foreseeable future, buy one-way tickets to Las Vegas, grab their already-packed bags and don Hawaiian print shirts and sandals, and are gone before the sun has risen.

The Sheriff’s Secret Police officers quickly print out and tape to everyone's door the standard Christmas Day message: informing everyone that they are retreating to the safety of their homes for the holidays, of course, but just because there isn't anyone actually watching doesn't mean that anyone should feel free to act as if they are not being watched. The message requests detailed information on everything that occurs that day, and asks that people please highlight or otherwise mark the important and/or interesting bits, because otherwise it will be very boring to read through them all. 

The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home sets about emptying bottles of eggnog on the floor. _Everyone's_ eggnog, on _everyone's_ floor, even for those people who don't have eggnog, even for those people who don't have a floor. “I've watched you all year,” she says, as the eggnog spills and spills. “Yes, you. I'm speaking to you, specifically. All of you, specifically. You, and I mean all of you, haven't been good at all. I've seen everything you did. I, on the other hand, have been very good. You cannot even _imagine_ all that I didn't do but could have done. You think what I'm doing now is bad? You _cannot imagine_.”

The hooded figures gather and vibrate around the BROWNSTONE SPIRE. The ground shudders and cracks and a host of smaller but equally terrifying BROWNSTONE SPIRES emerge to gather and vibrate around the hooded figures. A second, larger group of hooded figures gather and vibrate around the ring of BROWNSTONE SPIRES. The ground again shudders and again cracks, and the pattern continues until one of the Mute Messenger Children arrives with a letter from former mayor Pamela Winchell telling them to knock it off.

Marcus Vanston, who has thrown a lavish Christmas Day party every day since Christmas Eve, cancels all his arrangements and immediately throws an elaborate New Year's Day celebration instead, because he likes to stay ahead of current trends. He arranges new music, new catering, new lights and decorations, and new creatures growling from new cages. No one else had been invited to a single one of his Christmas Day celebrations. No one else is invited to his New Year's Day celebration, either. In tomorrow's newspaper he'll run several full-page advertisements declaring it his most successful holiday season to date.

There are no radio broadcasts on Christmas Day. The halls of the radio station shake with Station Management's snores. Khoshekh and his kittens each curl up in their fixed locations in the men's bathroom. They are full and sleepy from the piles of raw meat and bone their humans had left them earlier. They purr, all of them, and their purring vibrates through the air and settles around them until it is as if they are curled atop one another, fur-to-fur. The bathroom mirrors shake and shake and then shatter.

Many people, in many homes, sneak into their Empty Closets to retrieve stacks of presents. Many people, in many homes, awkwardly run into other members of their home while heading to the closet, and have to hem and haw and then pretend that they'd been doing something else entirely and return later when the coast is clear.

In the Palmer-The Scientist household, there is chaos. 

In the kitchen, Carlos and Cecil's sister and Tak and Herschel Wallaby are busy. There is a freshly killed and stuffed eggplant roasting in the oven and spiked potatoes boiling in pots on the stove and cranberries and nuts and custard and pudding and stuffing and cookies occupying every available surface in various stages of preparation. Everything is covered in a thin layer of almond flour. A few things are scorched. The Wallaby's do most of the cooking. No one had asked for Carlos's help, but no one had had the heart to keep Carlos out of the kitchen, so it is Cecil's sister's job to prevent him from getting too overly experimental. Nevertheless, something catches on fire or explodes every few minutes. 

In the living room, Cecil and Steve Carlsberg ostensibly decorate with shining bloodstones the still-bloody Christmas tree Cecil and Carlos had caught the night before. Actually, they argue. They argue about the morality of killing Christmas trees and holly for holidays. They argue about consumerism. They argue about dots and lines in the sky and about government conspiracies and whether the City Council has the right to free holidays from the constraints of a calendar.

Cecil shuts Steve down every time Steve so much as _mentions_ the baby – he doesn't want to hear Steve question the baby's origin, attributing it to some conspiracy or assigning it some malice or attempting to make it somehow _less_. When Cecil pauses to take a drink of cider – all the eggnog is missing – Steve takes the opportunity to finally get out what he's been trying to say to Cecil for months – “I'm so happy for you and Carlos, Cecil. The baby is lucky to have fathers like the both of you.” Cecil is so stunned that he does not have time to dodge Steve sweeping him up into a crushing bear hug until it is much too late.

Cecil protests, loudly and angrily, but he also returns the hug, just a little.

Then he escapes to the porch and sulks.

Across the living room, Janice and Megan Wallaby and Tamika Flynn and Cactus Jane's son Champ and a few Erikas sit around a large table playing traditional holiday boardgames – Undead Settlers of Catan, Oligopoly, Sudden Death Chess, and Bloodstone Backgammon, mostly. Janice has the Palmer-The Scientist baby on her lap. She adores the baby and often volunteers to babysit. She is well on her way to earning her Caring for Infants Up to Age 1 scout badge.

Nearby, Mr. and Mrs. Flynn and Cactus Jane and Old Woman Josie and a few other Erikas and John Peters – you know, the farmer – chat about the latest PTA meeting and how the Night Vale Spiderwolves are faring this season and the recent sighting of Rita Hayworth at Dark Owl Records. 

When Carlos takes a break from the kitchen he joins Cecil on the porch, and they lean against one another, and they admire the beautiful March Christmas Day sky – partially sun, mostly blue. Cecil in a furry Christmas sweater covered in six-legged reindeer and Carlos in a gold lab coat covered in little silver bells.

It is peaceful, for whatever quantity of peaceful can actually exist in a place like Night Vale.

And, as is the norm in a place like Night Vale, the peace is broken suddenly and _weirdly_. In this case, by a sudden buzzing – it is very similar to the sound a piece of scientific equipment makes when the results of its analysis are complete.

The sound comes from a greenish creature skulking in the rafters above them. It has too many eyes and too many legs and too many scales and green poison drips from its too many fangs.

As soon as Cecil spots it he shoves Carlos behind him, grabs his machete from his belt, and throws the machete, skewing the creature clean through. The creature whines and thrashes and oozes and begins to crystalize as it dies. Cecil hurriedly sweeps the porch for other vermin and then grabs hold of both of Carlos's arms to check Carlos over for harm.

Carlos smiles, and lets him, and then he leans forward and kisses Cecil. Where Carlos comes from it is traditional to kiss under mistletoe, even if this is not the mistletoe under which people where he is from traditionally kiss. Cecil thinks it's a rather silly tradition, but he kisses back all the same.

There is something about that moment.

Perhaps it is because it is a day so long anticipated and finally here.

Perhaps it is the relative peace inside the little porch, just Cecil and Carlos, with chaos behind them beyond the front door and chaos outside, always, but not here. Not right this moment.

Perhaps it is the sight of the baby through the window, and how well he has settled into their little family in their little desert community.

Perhaps it is because there is only so long some things can remain ignored unsaid.

They talk. They tell secrets. They share observations. Only a few. They do not bare themselves skin to bone to soul. They do not build theories that cannot be derived from known facts.

But they talk.

About the fear of loss and of distance.

About liquor in an Empty Closet. 

About forgetting the time and spending too many nights at work.

About celebrating every tradition to make up for lost time and jus in case next year they are not together to celebrate it.

About careers and opportunities, about risks and dangers.

About babies who become children who become teenagers who become young adults.

They talk about the future.

And when there are no more words to say, they kiss again under the still thrashing mistletoe.


End file.
